


Negative Points for Enthusiasm

by frickityfrac



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Abduction, Asphyxiation, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Dark Comedy, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Necrophilia, Needles, but accidental necrophilia, then uhhhh not so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:14:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29032257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frickityfrac/pseuds/frickityfrac
Summary: Long tired of waiting for his Bat to make a move, Joker abducts the vigilante for a private night together. And when Batman gives in… it goes horribly, horribly wrong.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 13
Kudos: 29





	Negative Points for Enthusiasm

**Author's Note:**

> Kept thinking about trying my hand at non-Telltale batjokes and… I didn't expect this to be first, but here we are.
> 
> Hope you read the tags!

Many times Batman has awakened to find himself tied up, and this isn't even the first time it's been on a bed. It _is_ the first time he's been tied sitting up, his forearms bound together behind the small of his back. More dense, double-braided rope loops under his arms and around his waist a dozen times, securely lashing him to the wrought iron frame. His probing fingers make out a swirled design, which he assumes repeats at the foot of the bed, but only the two corner posts and the curved rail connecting them rise over the height of the mattress. The ropes around his ankles are tied under the joints where the posts meet the rail, keeping his legs apart.

In addition to performing thorough knotwork, the Joker found everything on Batman's person that the vigilante could use to cut himself free. The utility belt is missing, as are his barbed gloves. The subtle weights of the tools in hidden pockets of the suit are absent. Not that freeing himself would be easy with the self-satisfied clown straddling his lap. Joker's hungry gaze is locked onto his Bat's eyes, and his tongue darts out to add a shine to his ruby lips.

What Batman feels is trepidation, he tells himself, not anticipation.

They're in a large, windowless concrete room lit by a fluorescent strip over their heads. There's no other furniture but the bed and its pale yellow fitted sheet. A steel door to Batman's right is closed, and he hears no sound beyond, most likely because of soundproofing. Joker decided to favor privacy and security over a romantic atmosphere, it seems, not that the cold surroundings affect his amorous mood. He drapes his arms over Batman's tense shoulders and leans in, clothed erection pressing below the ropes where the utility belt used to sit.

"Long time, no see, Batsy," Joker purrs. "You really made me hunt you down."

He chose a suitable outfit for it. Knee-length khaki shorts match the open, short-sleeved shirt hanging off his shoulders, and a pith helmet sits on his head. He's abandoned the boots; his feet are bare.

The fuzzy memory is now clear enough: Batman was lurking on a rooftop across the street from a not-so-abandoned warehouse. He was monitoring a suspected drug ring. He felt a sharp pinch in his neck. He held the purple dart with feathery green fletching in his palm.

Something else taken after he blacked out is his cape, detached from the cowl. Other than that, Batman is still clothed.

He answers stonily, "I do have other problems."

Joker clucks his tongue. "See, that's why we're here today. I need you to understand that I am your number-one priority."

The clown's needs have certainly escalated over recent weeks, from flirtatious taunts to salacious invitations and then to outright assault.

"You can't always get what you want," Batman replies.

He regrets the words as Joker takes off the helmet, holds it over his heart, and starts singing, "But if you try sometimes—"

"Don't."

"It's true!" Joker lets the helmet clunk to the floor. "If I hadn't tried, I wouldn't have known you returned my affection!"

"I don't."

" _I don't,_ " Joker says in a deeper, mocking tone. " _I was merely apprehending you with the art of tongue-fu._ "

"You kissed me first!" Batman bursts. "I just— I didn't expect—"

"Boring," Joker declares with a wave of his hand. "Let's get on with it."

His left hand reaches to the back of his belt and unsheathes a hunting knife, and his right snags the material over Batman's abdomen. He starts to cut a horizontal line through the tightly woven fibers. If that line continues around to Batman's back, it leads to his exposed hand and an opportunity to grab the knife, as slim as it is, but Joker knows better. The slash is only about a foot wide, and then the clown cuts a perpendicular line partway down each thigh, until he can pull down a flap that exposes Batman's groin. The compression shorts beneath the suit hold a protective cup in place, and Joker raps his fist over the smooth bulge.

"Knock knock!" he giggles. "Mind if I come in?"

The shorts are easier to slice through. In moments, Joker has cut a rough hole big enough to remove the cup's entire pocket, and he sends both that and the knife sailing into the wall.

Batman's face heats up. He could manage to be stoic about his nemesis seeing his genitalia— but not when it's half-hard. Delighted, Joker claps his hands.

"Somebody's more curious than he wants to let on!" he teases, then lets out a sigh. "Still, I'd really like you to mirror _my_ level of enthusiasm. I've got a helper to speed that along."

No matter what happens, Batman is _not_ taking whatever drug Joker tries to push down his throat. Unfortunately, it's not a pill that Joker pulls from his pocket.

"Injection is quickest!" he explains cheerily, waving a slim syringe in Batman's face. "And probably long-lasting at this dosage."

Batman can't know the right dosage for an unidentified drug, and the syringe is far from full, but any substance is dangerous in Joker's hands— especially given what Batman does know: this isn't injected into the arm.

"Don't you dare!" he snarls.

"Or what? You'll wriggle at me?" Joker boops the cowl's pointed nose. "Please do, the sensation is tantalizing."

Batman watches the glint of the needle lower. "Why don't you use a— a cock ring? For god's sake!"

Joker pauses, tapping his pointed chin. "Hm, that's an idea." He grins. "But I didn't bring mine, and I don't think yours is stowed in that belt, so I'll stick with experimentation."

Then his palm slides under Batman's cock, and a bolt strikes low in the vigilante's stomach. Those cool spindly fingers take hold, rubbing gently as Joker hums his appreciation. Batman doesn't feel the electric sensation, or so he tells himself while mesmerized by the contrast of his flushed dick against Joker's white skin.

The moment cracks when Joker swings Batman's penis to the side along his thigh and aims the needle. Batman curses and tries to thrash.

"Now, now," Joker chides. "Hold still or this may end up somewhere it doesn't belong."

The threat persists through his light tone. Batman goes still, frustrated and resigned, clenching his jaw as the needle presses into the side of his penis near the base. With a sharp pinch, it goes in.

"We both know danger gets your blood pumping anyway," Joker says, pressing the plunger.

Just as quickly, he withdraws the needle and begins steadily pulling at Batman's cock. Batman tries to keep his mind scrolling through all the possible adverse effects of the drug, but the list fades with each rough stroke.

"You're just as big as I hoped," Joker praises. "Thick _and_ long. Those codpieces can make false promises."

Mind over matter. Batman has fought through the effects of all kinds of mind-altering substances. But controlled breathing and thoughts of batmobile schematics have no effect on the swell of his cock as Joker's firm grip works with the drug to beckon blood flow. Soon his whole body feels flushed except for the lightness in his head. Then Joker starts touching himself too, palm rubbing through his shorts, both hands moving at the same rhythm. He well knows the importance of timing; he mocks Batman's futile breathing technique by softly moaning at each exhale. The sound catches sometimes, just barely escaping the alarm-red ring of his mouth.

The clown leans in suddenly, and Batman turns away from the kiss. Joker grabs his chin and turns him back, still teasing his erection. The room tilts, and Batman blinks to focus.

"It's fine, darling," Joker says, as serious as Batman's ever seen him. "I've given you all the permission you need. I trapped you and drugged you, and now you _just can't help it._ " He rolls his eyes. "The arousal's all just stimulation of nerve endings and whatever else you need to tell yourself to finally get what you want."

The dose was too heavy, Batman is sure, as the airiness spins into dizziness, yet it lifts his concerns away from the excitement in his groin. The relief is left behind. If he ( _finally_ ) gives in to the lust, he can't be blamed. He fought against it ( _again and again and again_ ), but even with his best efforts, sometimes Batman loses battles. Sometimes Joker wins, leaning in and finding an open mouth.

The clown chuckles against Batman's lips— and the ministrations of his hand stop.

He pulls away entirely, and Batman bites back an unhappy groan. But after the clown discards the safari shirt, he shifts back on the bed to lay on his stomach between the vigilante's legs. Batman's dizziness settles too, so long as he ignores the white calves playfully kicking over the foot of the bed. He looks to those gleaming green eyes instead, Joker staring back as he takes his engorged prize in hand, holding it upright this time. He unfurls his long, pink tongue and licks from Batman's sac all the way up his shaft, flicking over the head to clear the pre-cum from the slit. Batman nearly convulses, and then Joker wraps his lips around the tip, sucking with swirls of his tongue like he's pulling the flavor off a lollipop. Batman strains against the ropes, wanting to grab hold of those green curls.

Joker pops off and puts on an innocent look. "If you're positively sure you're not interested, I could—"

"Joker," Batman snarls.

"Yes, honeycakes?"

Playing a game, even now. Batman is not in the mood, not with the wet heat of Joker's mouth so close. "Suck me off, you hideous lowlife."

Apparently an insult wins the game. Joker's eyes light up. "As you wish!"

He takes in half of Batman's considerable length, twisting his hand around the root in time with the bobs of his head. His free hand grips a muscled thigh, purple nails digging deep. Batman's mouth falls open at the suction, at the pain, at the image before his eyes. He has a crystal clear view of what he couldn't allow even in dreams, where shame cloaked his giggling playmate in shadow. Here, that shame crumbles with every pulse of pleasure in his cock.

All the ropes provide little give; he can only manage minute thrusts, striving to get deeper down Joker's throat. Joker seems to notice and starts rocking his hips into the mattress.

Batman feels an orgasm approaching fast. His discipline is wrecked, not only by the drug, but by the sights and sounds: the color wearing off Joker's lips with each slick stroke, those ridiculous shorts barely hanging onto his bony hips each time he ruts against the sheets. As his balls draw up, Batman holds back a reflexive warning. The clown would very much see the humor in abandoning his darling on the edge, Batman knows— just as he knows the real reason he stays silent is that he wants to come in Joker's mouth.

But Joker knows all that, too. The wicked shine in his eyes says so, and he doesn't pull off. He moves his hand so he can take Batman down to the hilt, nose nesting in the thatch of hair there. Then he swallows and Batman comes hard, blissfully, at least until the fog of want clears enough for shame to drift back in. He shouldn't want this, shouldn't think of holding Joker on his dick and making him work for every drop.

Not that the clown doesn't do that on his own before pulling off with a happy sigh, licking his smeared lips. Batman holds in a weak moan. His dick, coated in saliva, is still hard and straining toward Joker's face, thanks to the injection. Joker traces a fingernail along a bulging vein.

"You taste so good, darling," he coos. "Did you like filling me up? I bet I could have you in my mouth all night."

Batman shudders as Joker pecks kisses along the sensitive shaft. He should say no outright. He... "I—I need time…"

"Let's test that theory."

Joker's grin holds a promise Batman can't protest, and it's much too easy to enjoy the discomfort as the clown sucks at his balls. Pale arms slide under Batman's thighs, locking around them like it's Joker and not the ropes keeping his nemesis's legs spread. Then Joker swoops back in, engulfing Batman's entire cock. He sucks thoroughly, nearly pulling off on the back stroke before his lips slide all the way back to the root.

Batman shouts just once, though the stimulation is overwhelming, both pleasing and painful. Joker sucks like he can't get enough, like Batman's cock is what he deserves, and he's right, every inch belongs in that clenching throat. Finally that mouth is doing something worthwhile. 

With adoring eyes, Joker draws back long enough to rasp, "I knew you'd love it. I'm gonna take it better than anyone ever has."

He swallows Batman's dick again, but now the bobs of his head are short, straining to keep it as deep as he can. His breath puffs in and out of his nose. His arms uncurl, still secure under Batman's thighs, but his fingers tangle in the ropes around the vigilante's waist, anchoring him securely to fight any gag reflex his body throws at him.

And Joker _is_ the best, tight and wet and unrelenting, and Batman knows this will happen again. He'll tell himself later that this was all a mistake, a manipulation, a weakness, but it's everything he wants from this man, willing subjugation. Even if his dreams light up in technicolor, how can he abstain from _this?_

Especially as Joker lives up to his bet. Minutes pass and the clown doesn't pull off again, holding Batman's cockhead in his clenching throat. He's stopped frotting into the mattress, resting his calves on the bed rail as he focuses on his Bat's turgid dick. Occasionally a weak moan squeaks from his chest.

Batman can't watch anymore. The sight between his legs should easily make him come again, but it still hasn't been long enough since the first time. He tips his head back and tries to relax, to concentrate on the slick heat. He's had dry orgasms before.

He indulges in more unacceptable fantasies. He wants to be unbound and straddle Joker's face and fuck at his own leisure. He wants to turn the clown over, hike up those narrow hips, and shove Joker's face into the mattress as he plunges his cock into his ass. Or he could take the clown from the front, bending him in half with his legs on Batman's shoulders as he whines around a gag.

Batman hears his own humiliating whine instead, as the bastard stops working his throat. Of course. This would be better timing for the torture, wouldn't it, when Batman's half-empty and struggling? He feels his cheeks flush deeper, and he keeps his eyes closed as he waits for Joker to pull off and laugh at his desperation. The clown doesn't move, holding Batman deep, happy to be a cockwarmer to draw this out.

Batman finally looks down and snaps, "If you want my dick so bad, swallow it!"

The clown lies still, blearily staring at Batman's stomach.

"Joker. Joker?" Batman jolts his hips but only succeeds in jostling Joker's prone form.

He could roll his eyes. Joker _would_ put so much enthusiasm into a blowjob that he'd pass out in the middle of it. 

And that's just as well, isn't it? Batman should be ashamed of himself, of the disappointment sinking in his stomach. Joker is a diabolical murderer. Any thoughts otherwise are a personal failure not to be indulged, ever. And now that the clown can't manipulate him, Batman is going to figure out how to free himself from these seemingly impossible knots. Then, awake or not, Joker is headed back to...

Wait.

The clown's pointed nose is jammed in Batman's abdomen, but there's not the slightest ghost of a breath.

"Joker!" Batman shouts, heart back to racing speed. He tries bucking to rouse the clown, but the binds just barely allow him to move his hips. He can press his thighs down into Joker's arms, but what the hell will that do if a dick plugging up his throat does nothing?!

No. Calm. Batman has to stay calm. He needs to work on getting free. He has little more than ten minutes to start CPR, maybe longer given everything Joker's miraculously survived. Batman closes his eyes and works his arms and fingers, mentally mapping the twists and tightest points of the ropes, figuring out the best ways to shift and tug and eventually loosen them.

* * *

The panic is stifled by the numbness spreading from his chest.

It's been at least twenty minutes, and he knows that's a hopeful estimate, because twenty minutes still feels like Joker has a chance.

But the pupils of Joker's glazed, half-lidded eyes are dilated. His fingers may be caught up in the ropes, but the muscles in his arms are lax. The only reason he hasn't pissed the bed or worse could just be how infrequently he remembers to sustain himself.

It's too soon for the clown to be cold, but the temperature in his mouth has lost steam, not that Batman's erection cares. He tried to keep his hips completely still as he worked on the ropes, and he simultaneously tried not to think about why, about how Joker is still snug and wet around the aching cock blocking his airway. He couldn't keep still as he tried yanking and twisting his ankles free. He just had to ignore the sensations until he concluded that, no, he couldn't find enough give to even bend his knees.

Over the years, Joker got better and better at restraints, and it seems he finally made it impossible—

No, Batman is going to get out of this, and there could still be time for resuscitation.

Plus, a henchman might come down here, and Batman will _not_ be found with his penis stuffed down a corpse's—

There is time. He needs to move Joker off of him.

It's the way the clown anchored himself, the ropes trapping those skeletal fingers against Batman's sides, that's keeping his body in this ludicrous... position. But if Joker could wriggle his fingers in, they can be maneuvered out.

Accomplishing that requires more movement, and movement will cause more… unwanted reactions. Batman accepts that. He's navigated countless terrible scenarios, and this is just another one. It's more distasteful than the others, but… He just needs to get through it.

Looking straight ahead, he shifts his lower body from side to side, an action that simultaneously moves Joker's arms and adjusts the ropes slightly. Just that bit of give should, after a time, allow Joker's limp fingers to fall free, making it easier to move the clown's body. (Exactly how is a question that can wait.)

The action also means that Batman's erection is shifting in the cradle of Joker's tongue. He could ignore that, like the pain in his shoulders, but he can't ignore the teeth. Joker's jaw has relaxed, and his incisors and canines softly scrape the root of Batman's cock, to say nothing of his chin rubbing against Batman's scrotum.

The sharp sensations are pleasant, but they're just that: sensations, nerve endings...

("And whatever else you need to tell yourself," Joker said, that tongue tripping off those teeth not long before it lapped so sweetly at—)

Breathe. Breathe.

Batman closes his eyes and counts the passing seconds in groups of ten. A minute goes by, then three, and it's when minute eight approaches that he grits his teeth. He trained himself to maintain stress positions, hold his breath, and bear fifty-pound weights for periods longer than this, yet his concentration is failing. He opens his eyes and checks Joker's hands, but he can't tell from this angle how much they've moved. He keeps squirming, watching now, and the reality sinks in that they aren't budging. Thanks to that horny fool's zeal, those fingers are simply stuck.

He breaks and looks at said fool, at his own wiggling cock hopelessly lodged in Joker's mouth. With that glazed stare, the clown could still be lost in the joy of sucking Batman off, and the traces of color on his pale mouth almost make his lips look swollen from the effort. God, the effort, especially when he swallowed…

Batman's hips jerk forward at the sense memory, so hard that the bed squeaks on the floor. The spasm gets him barely deeper into Joker's throat before he slides back again, but it's enough to pull a curse from his own throat. He's long passed his refractory period, and his balls feel painfully heavy. Craven instincts beg him to keep going.

He holds still, closes his eyes. He will not do this. He will escape. All he wants… is to escape.

And when he opens his eyes again, he sees how.

Sticking partway out of the right pocket of Joker's shorts, dislodged by the bed's sudden movement, is the syringe. Not discarded unseen on the floor, but tucked away close by, just out of sight this whole goddamn time.

Its needle is small, but it's sharp, and it will cut through the ropes with enough time and patience. Getting hold of it is just a matter of calculation and care. Batman needs to lurch the bed sharply enough that the syringe skips from the pocket onto his knee, instead of falling into the crevice between his knee and Joker's waist. Then it needs to roll to the other side of Batman's leg onto the mattress, so more shifts of the bed can slide it up the sheet, past Joker's elbow, and to Batman's hip, where his fingers can grab it. The tail of the plunger should prevent it from rolling sideways onto the floor.

Again he prepares himself with deep breaths. He forces the display at his groin out of his mind and focuses on Joker's pocket. He throws all his weight backward, and as the bed jerks toward the wall, the syringe jerks toward him. It tilts slightly downward but doesn't fall, not because of the breath trapped in Batman's chest but because the plunger caught on the inside of the pocket. Hardly a fan of common sense, Joker had tucked the tool away with the needle pointing outward.

The plan is still in play. The pleasant sensation (around his burrowing cock) lasted a flash. He can ignore it.

He heaves his weight again and this time the syringe makes the hop, landing on his knee. A thrill zaps through him, which has nothing to do with the scratch of Joker's teeth. Focus. Focus. He twists and flexes his leg, coaxing the syringe to the left, and it tumbles onto the mattress.

Okay. The final stretch. He tips his head back to check how far away the wall is, and there's plenty of room to keep moving.

As if that's what he's most worried about.

He jerks back again, and the syringe shifts just a quarter of an inch, dragging on the fabric. He tries to use more verve in the next attempt, but the progress is the same. He's at the limit of his leverage, but that's fine. It's something.

He keeps going, watching the syringe steadily make its way with each thrust— no. He's not thrus… He's performing a tactical maneuver, the only one allowed to him in this farce. Joker would love it; Batman swears the corners of that stuffed mouth are quirked upward. The bastard did get what he wanted, after all. If Batman could see that white throat, he'd no doubt see the bulge of his head poking at the clown's Adam's apple.

He hears a soft moan, an echo of Joker in his head– except he hears it again and realizes it's his own. He wasn't supposed to look down, and now he can't look away. He can't call what's happening thrusting— sliding slightly out of that slack mouth when he tosses himself backwards and back into place when everything settles— but even vague friction is more than nothing.

(So much better than nothing.)

And Joker's body jolts along with his, like the clown still wants nothing more than to devour his darling's cock.

Thoughts war in Batman's spinning head. He should pause and let the excitement settle, but the sooner he gets out of this, the better. He doesn't have to stop moving; he just has to stop thinking with his dick and maintain control. He could regain control if he could think clearly, if he could finally just—

He grits his teeth against the throbbing need to come. Damn that fucking drug. Did Joker really want it like _that_?

The thought prompts a bitter laugh. Of course Joker did. He blatantly wanted Batman to fuck him for years, but when forcing the issue, he couldn't make it simple. Everything was a goddamn escalation, everything had to push his nemesis off-kilter, everything was a show to dress up a common, primal need that was laid bare when he wasted no time getting Batman off. Then he literally choked to death trying to make it happen again.

When it came down to it, Joker would have been perfectly happy if Batman held him down and fucked him on some grimy, rain-wet rooftop. What standards did the clown have?

He'd tell Batman to come right now, if he could speak from the beyond. What did it matter?

It should matter. It's sick and self-serving and disgusting.

All reasons that Joker would love it.

But Joker can't love it, can't do anything. He…

He won't even know. No one will.

And Batman is _so close_.

This time when the bed shrieks backward, he bucks forward just as hard, quickening the rhythm. In his periphery, the syringe shuffles in place now, but he swears his cock is creeping even deeper. Joker's teeth drag more sharply, setting off sparks.

The echoing screech of metal on concrete should ruin everything, but instead it makes Batman feel almost frantic, every muscle tense. His stare is soldered to Joker's pliant form, hardly more than a doll but just as ready to be used as he ever was. Once Batman gets free, he'll strip off those awful shorts and take advantage before the warmth fades for good, take this last chance to fuck the clown properly like he should have years ago. He'll prop up those hips and drive in, no worries for the preparation that Joker would have waved off anyway. In the silence between the thrusts, his memory can pull from a catalog of grunts and groans that were always too enthusiastic for a beating but are perfect for this final sendoff. 

This final joke. The clown spent years striving to be the center of Batman's universe, and when he's the vigilante's sole focus at long last, he's not around to feel it, not the rub of the sheets against his face, not the leather gloves bruising his hips, not the cock shooting deep in his ass.

Batman comes with a howl, straining against the ropes. There's another sound, too, but it's not as important as jerking his hips, as getting every drop down Joker's throat. It feels so good, and he nearly sobs as his head drops back with relief. All the tension evaporates and he slumps in his binds.

And his mind clears enough to realize that the door is open.

"Bruce?" quavers a voice, one he knows, and his insides curdle.

The syringe tings when it hits the floor.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> CYOA when it comes to the identity of Bruce's rescuer(s). He may have to deal with the consequences of this, but I sure don't.


End file.
